THE MAGDALENS 149 
it was now the latter half of July and the song sea- 
son of most species was over. Fox Sparrows, how- 
ever, were still singing, and their clear, ringing 
whistle came from the spruces all about. The fogs, 
so characteristic of the region, seemed in no way to 
dampen their spirits, and when the gray mists closed 
in thick about us their notes rang out as cheerily as 
though the sun shone from a blue sky. 
My short excursions, however, were largely made 
along the beaches in search of some sea waif, and 
for the shore birds that would soon migrate through 
these islands in large numbers, or to the cliffs where 
the Guillemots were nesting. The latter were com- 
parative strangers to me, and I had not become 
accustomed to the plump, black, white-winged, little 
birds that sat so lightly on the water. They nest in 
scattered pairs, in crevices, in the face of the cliffs, 
where my guide, Mr. Shelbourne, a resident col- 
lector, was particularly apt at discovering them. 
Grosse Isle is not beyond the range of the nest- 
robbing small boy, and only the few Guillemots that 
had contrived to escape him now had young. They 
were feeding them on sand eels, and with bills full 
of their shining prey made frequent visits to their 
nests. The young varied in development from those 
as yet covered only with the scanty natal down to 
others half grown and with the black and white 
second plumage appearing beneath. They were ac- 
tive enough to test the temper of the most patient 
bird photographer, and the accompanying picture 
was secured only after many trials.” 
In the meantime we were endeavoring to make 
some arrangements for our voyage to the Rock, 
